


His Mind Repeated

by Treeclimbr



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Deleted Scenes, M/M, Pining, UST, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-03
Updated: 2015-02-03
Packaged: 2018-03-10 07:18:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3281741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Treeclimbr/pseuds/Treeclimbr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tumblr ficlet about the missing scene between the staircase and the game of "who am I?" on John's Stag night.</p>
<p>"John," said Sherlock. John stood a bit straighter and turned himself to go up the stairs before shifting his eyes - <em>Coy</em>, thought Sherlock, then, <em>Does he know he does that?</em>- to meet Sherlock's gaze. Judging by John's loose half-smile, Sherlock thought again, he has no idea.</p>
            </blockquote>





	His Mind Repeated

"You've only been out two hours," chided Mrs. Hudson as she closed her door behind her.  
With that Sherlock thought: _Nope. Nope, nope!_ and somehow managed to lurch his body forward and out of the warmth of John's proximity. John continued to lay back, staring up at the ceiling with his hands crossed peaceably. Maybe John was too impared to notice.  
Too impared to notice... something....

"Auuuoo.... Are you getting...?" John groaned and gestured upward-ly. Sherlock nodded, knowing that he _had_ meant to stand but forgetting momentarily why. John reached his hand out at the air. For a second Sherlock regarded the hand dubiously, lifted at a strange angle, as though he expected there to be something to help him... _Oh!_ Sherlock stood, wobbling, and braced his legs to pull John up to his feet. A part of him, way in the back of his mind, registered that John would not normally, would not _ever_ reach out a hand and wait to be helped. It was much more like him to silently clench his jaw through any discomforts provided to him by his army wounds. Sherlock grabbed the proffered hand and tugged heartily.  
A slow-motion moment later, John was up, was taking an extra step in, thrown off balance by the sudden change in orientation (combined with several graduated cylinders of ale). Sherlock watched from an angle that seemed a bit _off_ as John's foot landed on the floor squarely between his, their legs making contact thigh to thigh. As Sherlock's own torso arrested John's forward momentum, as Sherlock lifted his foot to take a forced step back, a partner to John's step forward, like a spontaneous part of a dance.

Sherlock's legs hit the hall table, and something clattered to the ground as John got his balance, looking pointedly at the space to Sherlock's left before letting out a giggle. Sherlock looked straight at John's faraway eyes, feeling his own mouth turn up in a smile but wanting John to _look at him goddamn it._

And then Sherlock remembered. There had been an aborted thought earlier. Years ago. On the stairs. Perhaps John was too impared to notice that they had consumed all the night's beers in half the time he had planned. Perhaps John was too impared to notice they were back at Baker Street with nothing to do on John's Stag Night, but Sherlock was not.

"John," said Sherlock. John stood a bit straighter and turned himself to go up the stairs before shifting his eyes - _coy_ , thought Sherlock, then, _Does he know he does that?_ \- to meet Sherlock's gaze. Judging by John's loose half-smile, Sherlock thought again, he has no idea.

They stood there for a moment, smiles mirroring each other and eyes boucing between them, until John started to giggle again, and started up the stairs.

"You were saying?" John called down to Sherlock at the foot of the stairs before opening the door and disappearing inside.

"Drinking games, John!" Sherlock boomed, taking the stairs two at a time to catch up.

Up in 221B, the flat was aglow. What had seemed cavernous without him was at once right and whole again, and Sherlock ached in a way that he had been becoming more and more used to since his resurrection. John fell backwards in his chair and looked expectantly up at Sherlock, who moved to sit across from him with a staggering flourish. "Did you hear me?" asked Sherlock.

"Hm?" said John, sinking lower into his chair.

"Do you know any drinking games?"

John shrugged, furrowed his eyebrows, shook his head, and snorted.

"We're a wild pair, mm?"

_Pair,_ repeated Sherlock's mind. "We could go back out," offered Sherlock lamely. He should have planned the Stag Night better. He was supposed to make it a perfect night, a final, perfect evening. _Final,_ repeated Sherlock's mind. John chuckled and shook his head, pulling Sherlock from his thoughts.

"Uh-uh, noope." John smiled sideways into his hand. "We _ran_ through those bars, Sherlock. I know this," he gestured vaguely, lowering his voice as if telling a secret "is not a Stag Night any more, but it's perfect. I miss this place." He smiled a second too long, before catching himself and hefting to his feet. Sherlock pulled out his cell phone. _Oh mercy,_ He thought. _This technology was made for the sober._

_Perfect,_ his mind repeated. His eyes lifted from his screen to John, stooping in the fridge, pulling himself up to his toes to reach the shelf where he kept his bottle of alcohol years before. When he returned to the sitting room, Sherlock had schooled his expression into neutrality, and accepted the drink John thrust at him as he sat.

"I do know one," John said, setting the bottle on the table beside him and taking a swig from his glass. John leaned forward and fumbled with the table drawer. Pulling out a pen and what looked to be an index card with a recipe on one side, he inspected the card, ripped it in half, and handed a peice to Sherlock, with a pen. "Pick something, and write it on the paper," John slurred cryptically. Sherlock looked at his paper, and jotted something down. When he lifted his gaze back to John, his heart stuttered. John wore such a clear look of mischeif that his eyes seemed to sparkle with it.

"Now what?" Sherlock breathed.

"Now, the card goes on your forehead. No, no!" John jumped forward to grab Sherlock's card, stumbled, and caught himself on the arm of the chair. It was like gravity, Sherlock thought, how they kept falling towards each other. John was laughing a hearty, rumbly sound, and Sherlock returned the gesture. John pulled his smile, parted his mouth, and licked the back of his card.

"It's gross," he admitted. "But it's part of the game." His hands brushed the hair from Sherlock's forehead, and Sherlock's skin pricked with energy. A firm press like a kiss stuck the card to his skin, and John disappeared back, so far back, away in his chair.

"So, I don't know my own card...?"  
  
"Right. Pick someone other than-" John turned Sherlock's card over in his hand, "-crimes." John guffawed. "Because I already know this one. Pick someone that anyone would be able to do, uhm, 20 questions to figure out."

Sherlock scrambled. Something anyone would know? Like the solar system?  
His hands jotted down a name he had seen earlier. He took a long pull from his glass, looking up at the last second to catch John's eyes. He set down his drink and licked his lips, watching John's eyes follow the actions intently. Sherlock leaned forward, pulling his tongue against the paper. With one hand, he braced himself on the chair above John's shoulder. He got close, as close as he dared, and pressed the card against his friend's forehead. The card fell a moment after Sherlock moved, and they both fumbled to catch it, knocking it to the ground in the process. John giggled again, and snorted, and Sherlock leaned against him as laughter shook them both. His hand rested on John's sweater, and his eyes caught on the edge, where he could see John's pulse thundering, where he would love to press his lips, just to try it.  
  
"One more try," smiled John. _One more try,_ Sherlock's mind repeated.


End file.
